And Rise
by Serindrana
Summary: The Blight has ended, but that doesn't mean the shadows have cleared or the monsters have gone. When a network of catacombs is found beneath the city, Cauthrien takes a team in to see what might be lurking. Post-game Vampire AU.
1. Chapter 1

_****__A/N:__ This was originally posted serially on tumblr, over the course of a week, in celebration of Halloween. But you guys get it all together, at once. :) Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><em><strong>And Rise: Chapter 1<strong>_

"Should we send for the templars, Ser?" Alan asked, the light of his torch flickering as he turned uneasily, glancing down branching corridors, trying to fight off shadows. Cauthrien could hear his breathing, fast and irregular, a counterpoint to her forced slow inhales. She would not panic. She would not fear.

"I doubt that will be necessary," she said as she crept another few feet forward. The passages of the recently unearthed catacombs were too narrow for the Summer Sword, and instead she clutched a lighter, shorter sword, unfamiliar in its particulars. It was not the best of situations, but so little had been since the start of the Blight. An end to the war had not fixed much of anything.

She pressed on. "It's likely empty. And if we do need assistance, it will be the Wardens we go to, not the templars."

_Magic_, if it haunted these halls, was not something she wanted to think about. Five years ago she would never have let distaste make her ignore a threat, but the Blight had given her practice. As she crept through the crumbling tunnels that stank of earth and dust, she thought only of the mundane. Perhaps there would be dead bodies, long rotted and no more a threat than a clod of dirt. Perhaps there would be slavers, or homeless men and women, or elves who had fled the Alienage. Perhaps there would be darkspawn come back to destroy Denerim. Perhaps there would be a secret cabal of blood mages, and she had made the wrong decision-

"Captain!" Dairene cried out, and Cauthrien spun, torch in hand nearly going out. The woman was pressed flush to one of the walls, staring into the inky dark beyond the fall of their light.

"What is it, lieutenant?"

"I saw something. I did." Her face was pale and her jaw slackened, brows drawn together beneath her helm, and Cauthrien couldn't remember ever seeing her so frightened.

"Alan?" Cauthrien asked, hoping and fearing a second opinion. Dairene did not often lie. Moving closer to her men, she sidestepped them to join Dairene and peer into the gloom. She saw nothing.

"I didn't see anything."

Her jaw tightened. "Any of you?"

There was a chorus of low _no_s, and Cauthrien frowned. In a way, it would have been easier if they had all seen a threat. Then she would have been certain. As it was, she didn't want to distrust one of her guard, and not Dairene, but the season was late and the specters of the Blight still haunted them all. The rough-hewn walls provided no comfort, no familiar landmarks. They were somewhere beneath the Arl of Denerim's estate, a hundred feet, two hundred beneath the surface.

And it was silent.

"Keep moving," she said, finally, ignoring the murmurings of discontent. They would follow. If they supported her leadership even after what had been done during the war, they would support her here; they knew she would protect them.

She clasped Dairene's shoulder. "Go on," Cauthrien said, "I'll watch behind us."

"Yes, Ser," Dairene responded, and though her hands trembled, she squared her shoulders and jogged off after the others.

Cauthrien lingered. To split off completely was folly, even in empty tunnels; they were not mapped, and to be lost might have been to find death. But she took a few moments to scan the dark.

There was a flicker of shadow and she lifted her sword before her.

"Reveal yourself, on order of the Captain of the Guard," she said, voice betraying the tremor beneath her armor. She stared into the darkness, searching for any other sign of movement. None came.

She waited until the footsteps behind her were almost too far gone, and only then did she begin to retreat. She walked backwards five paces, then ten, and only when nothing echoed but her own breathing did she turn.

There were no footsteps behind her, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed.

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><p>"Alan!" she called as she caught up with the others. The small group stopped and looked back to her, and in turn she offered them a nod, a smile. "We keep moving," she said. "Is there any sign of another opening?"<p>

"No wind, Ser," he responded, and she nodded, peering forward now instead of back. There were branching paths, but the few they had followed led only to small chambers with niches carved into the walls, old bones and scraps of metal lingering from Maker only knew how long ago.

The main path stretched ever forward.

"But Ser-"

"Yes? Speak freely, Alan," she said, moving to the head of the group with him at her heels. He was a good man - young, but skilled, and he should have been promoted a year ago. Rendon Howe's men filling her ranks had kept her from noticing him - one of the seemingly endless list of frustrations, regrets, and shames of the Blight.

"Perhaps we should turn back?" He was not usually a nervous man, but now he glanced behind her, behind him, and she couldn't fault him for the feeling.

But she was skilled these days at giving unpleasant orders. "No," she said, shaking her head and motioning with a jerk of her chin down the hall before them. "There can't be much more, and as soon as we have cleared the tunnels, they will need to be blocked back up. I will not let this become a warren for further unrest. And it isn't as if daylight will be of any help to us down here." She reached out, brushed fingers against his elbow in a small gesture of support. "We move. Come."

The path stretched ever forward, almost unchanging, but soon it began to widen, out finally into a circular room with another hall leading off the far side. Cauthrien ordered the guard to fan out, and they crept forward, close to the walls, looking for any signs of traps or inhabitants. There were none. There were no footsteps, no fresh bones, no morsels of food. There was no stench of a latrine pit. There was nothing but dust.

When she felt eyes on the back of her neck again, her steps halted and she glanced over her shoulder.

There was nothing.

"Ser!" Alan called, and she turned to see him and Dairene crouching next to what looked like a crudely hewn flight of stairs. It stretched up to the ceiling. In the hallway, it had been almost low enough to touch. Now it was too high to see even with their torches lifted. She moved over to join them, then mounted the first two steps. They were solid.

"Let's see where this goes," she murmured, then called out, "Search the room but move no further!" There were calls of assent in return, and she climbed higher still.

The air grew warmer as she rose, the earth beside her changed in color. Below the torches grew fainter to almost pinpricks. And before her-

The stair spiralled around the room, lifting above the entrances to the two passages below as the ground fell away. She would have wagered that on the way in they had marched only half an hour, an hour at most. How deep had they delved? Her torch lit nothing but wall and step, until, finally, she caught a glimpse of the ceiling. It was studded with skulls, long bones, ribs arranged in spirals, and she drew a sharp breath.

Another step, and she felt the stair give way.

It crumbled fast, and she fell back, step after step as fast as she could without losing her balance. But the damage spread, cracking beneath her, and she lost her footing. There was a great roar as the earth shifted and fell from the wall, and she bit down a shout as dirt bloomed upwards, dust filling the air.

Her torch guttered out just as she felt a hand wrap around her throat and an arm go tight around her waist.


	2. Chapter 2

**_And Rise: Chapter 2_**

She woke up on her back, halfway down the staircase, her head throbbing and her throat raw. She stared up into the dark.

_Death_, she thought. _Is this death_?

She remembered little of what had come before. Hands on her, arms around her, the hiss of breath by her ear. She had fought - yes. That she could remember, and the bruises on her shoulders, on her knuckles, made it more real. She grasped at threads. Darkness, choking on the earth in the air, and then a hand over her mouth-

There was a flicker of light, a cough, and she turned her head. Down on the ground below, Alan held aloft his torch and looked around. The others had also been knocked down by the crash of earth, and began to pull themselves up as she watched. Carefully, she rolled onto her side, then her front, pushing herself up to her knees.

No, not dead.

But what had happened?

Most of the light had gone out, and the glow of the torch that still burned down below didn't quite reach the top of the stairs, but she could see a ragged shadow. There was a gap there, an emptiness. The stairs were gone. Whatever was up there, she couldn't reach it now.

And below, dirt and rubble blocked off the path they had would have taken further into the hall. There were other exits, small and narrow, but they likely led only to more grave chambers. She coughed, standing and beginning to pick her way down to the floor.

There would be no more exploration that night.

"Alan?" she called, searching for him in the rubble. The light came from his torch, and he raised his other hand to her. She let out a breath. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure, Ser!" He was doing his best to sound confident and unshaken, but she could make out the tremor there. "The stairs just began to collapse - are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She coughed again, pulling dust and dirt from her lungs. "Is anybody hurt?"

He moved to the person nearest him, and she paused to count heads. Everybody was there and some degree of upright, and she let out a sigh of relief. The last thing she needed was to have killed one of her own because of an ill-placed step.

"Everybody's fine," Alan called up, as other torches flared back to life. She could see now that he was favoring his sword arm, but she could also make out the shape of a shrug.

"Just spooked, Ser," another added, and she chuckled. It was awkward and relieved and rasped in her throat, but it was a reminder that she was alive. That they were all alive, even down in the dark.

"Understandable. Let's get everybody up and out," she said, resuming her descent. A glance back behind her showed how large the break in the stairs was - at least thirty feet of empty air. There was nothing to be done for it, and the pile of rubble from the crash went well above the ceiling of the hall that had led to the rest of the catacombs.

She looked back down as Alan asked, "Ser?"

"There's nowhere left for us to search," she said as her booted foot touched the ground at last. She quickly put distance between herself and the stairs, going instead to help Dairene to her feet. Left unsaid was, _and none of us are in a mind to do it_. No need to test pride aloud when everybody already knew it.

It would, she thought as they began moving, be a faster trip out then it had been in. At the very least, she no longer felt eyes on the back of her neck, and the light of torches filled the hall and banished most of the shadows.

It was only as they reached the entrance that she realized that her sword was gone.

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><p>She had never been so grateful to see the jagged spike of Dragon's Peak blocking out half the full moon as she was that evening. Its shadow cut across her barracks room as she shed her armor, and crossed her path as she made her way to a small tavern a fifteen minute walk from the palace. Those swaths of shadow were nothing compared to the enclosing dark beneath the city, and she took solace and strength every time she emerged from it.<p>

There were bruises across her body from hitting the ground or being struck by debris. There was a tattoo pattern of fingers on her throat, too, but she tried to ignore it; whoever had grabbed her had disappeared, and she preferred to think it a figment. The bruises could have had other explanations. Had she clawed at her throat for breath?

Yes, that seemed more likely than a shadowy assailant who pulled her out of harms way and left without a single trace, nothing taken but a sword of little value.

She ordered whiskey at the bar, then sank with her cup in her usual seat, a small table in the far corner where she could watch. This was one of the few taverns in Denerim that she could afford and that didn't care if she was guard captain of Denerim, that didn't care that she had once led Loghain Mac Tir's armies. It was a place she could forget herself for just a little while, and she took advantage of it for all it was worth, knocking back half her cup in just a few swallows and letting the burn of it work the last of the earth's cold from her limbs.

There were smudges of dirt on her knuckles and under her nails, and she picked them off while she scanned the room. It was busier than normal, perhaps because of the chill in the air or because of the otherwise fair weather. It was not so wet as it usually was in late Harvestmere, and the streets too had seemed livelier. It had been a reassurance and a blessing. No matter what happened below the streets, life continued.

She took another swallow, then started at the looming of a shadow in the corner of her vision. She hadn't heard an approach, and she turned, frowning.

"I don't want company," she said.

The man standing near her was cloaked from head to toe, but she could make out a smile on his lips, a patch of beard beneath his mouth. There was a curl, too, of dark hair, a tendril snaking from inside the folds of fabric shadowing the rest of his face.

"I have a question, if I may," he said, and his words were tinged with a faint accent. _Marcher_, she thought. "Ser Cauthrien, yes?"

Cauthrien stiffened, then sat back, arms crossed over her chest. "Yes. Your question is asked."

He chuckled. "No, forgive me. I have a question _for_ Ser Cauthrien. For you. Do you mind?" He gestured to a chair, and she had half a thought to say that yes, she minded.

Instead, she said only, "I would know who I'm speaking with."

The man moved to sit, his back to the rest of the room. She noted the creak of leather and the faint scent of salt and wood, the specific musk of_ship_ that was so rare in Ferelden. She watched too as he reached up and pushed his hood back, revealing pale skin, pale eyes, and dark hair braided at his temples and pulled back.

It also revealed a hooked nose she couldn't _not_ recognize, and she inhaled sharply.

"Ah, yes, I thought you'd recognize me. Or my lineage, as it were. I am Nathaniel." He didn't hold out a hand, or smile, or do anything but lean his elbows against the table, hands propped below his chin. "We met a long time ago."

She swallowed. She knew that name, knew that nose, but it made no sense. She remembered a young man - a boy - but she hadn't even been knighted yet and had seen him only in passing. He had been at Rendon's heels, and had watched Loghain with wide eyes, the sort that had said _let me be you_. He'd been like so many other children brought to the Landsmeet by their parents. No, she remembered him.

But it didn't make sense.

Cauthrien shook her head slowly, not looking away from him. "Nathaniel H-"

His reaction was instant, a tightening of his hands into fists, a scowl, nearly a snarl, twisting his lips and brow. "Don't say that name." His expression tightened, hardened- and then he shook his head. His voice softened. "That's why I'm here."

"You died eight years ago."

She remembered the news, that Rendon Howe's son had been taken by the same sea that would later take King Maric. She could even remembere the funeral, if she thought hard enough. She had stood guard at it, alongside templars and beginning to wilt from the heat of the pyre as it burned a child's clothing, his toys, the bits and pieces of a life lost.

And yet he sat across from her, full grown and focused wholly on her, and the smell of the sea was not of its murky, roiling depths but of the world of men on its surface.

Nathaniel Howe leaned forward.

"My father told people as much," he said. "Lost to the waves. But the ship made it to the Free Marches." He smiled, a grim thing, thin and tight, and finally sat back, carding a gloved hand through his hair. "I have… been in there ever since. I tried to return when word of the Blight reached Ostwick, but there were few ships willing to come near. I arrived just today, before dawn."

Cauthrien said nothing at first, brow furrowed until her head began to ache. She took another swallow of whiskey in an attempt to dull it. _Nathaniel Howe_ had died eight years earlier. Rendon had never spoken of him in her presence, and the world had moved on. But here he was, unmistakable and alive. Pale and drawn, perhaps, but alive.

"And what do you want of me?" she finally asked, looking from her cup to him.

"I want you to tell me what happened to my father."


	3. Chapter 3

_**And Rise: Chapter 3**_

Nathaniel Howe, back from the grave- and he wanted to know what had happened to his father. She stared at him across the table, then set down what little remained of her drink.

"He's dead," she said, as if it were simple, as if she had no feelings on the matter.

"Yes, I gathered as much." His expression contorted for just a moment, and then he looked away, crossed his legs and took a breath. When he looked back to her he was composed again. "I would like to know who killed him. And why."

_The Warden_ was on her tongue, but she hesitated. He was composed and almost cold, yes- but she could also see that subtle twist to his lips, the tightening around his eyes. She knew that look. That was the look of somebody determined to exact payment for a life lost. _Why_ was immaterial; the who was what was important.

And the _who_ had earned her respect, and to some extent her loyalty, and so she could not push the words out.

"Ser Cauthrien," he said, and he leaned in, the tightness around his eyes becoming more pronounced, his gaze narrowing. "I am asking your cooperation. Nicely."

"And would you threaten me if I don't comply?" She sat back, away from him, and shook her head. One hand went to her belt, fingers resting lightly on the pommel of her dagger. "Knights don't take well to threats, Howe."

At the sound of his name, he flinched and pulled away. "I told you not to call me that."

"And I told you not to threaten me." Her hand left her dagger only reluctantly, and she placed it palm down on the wood for him to see. She spread her fingers wide and stood. "This conversation is over."

He looked about to say something, scowling with frustration and maybe even a hint of confusion, but then-

The lights went out.

Every lantern, every hearth fire was extinguished in an instant, darkness descending like a physical force. It was accompanied by a howl, a shout, feet pounding on the floorboards and the crash of an overturned table. She reached for her blade, hand falling to her dagger only when she remembered she had no sword, that it had been lost, that she had opted to go out without it rather than remain in.

Maker damn it _all_.

She was a moment too late and year out of practice, and a body slammed into her, too strong and large to be human. She barely kept her feet, stumbling back into the table. It tipped, and there was the clatter and splash of her whiskey falling to the floor. Bringing her dagger up, she tried to kick her assailant off, but it roared and grabbed for her throat. _Not again_, she thought wildly. With a cry, she shoved the blade towards its face.

Hot blood misted her face and she closed her eyes and mouth on instinct. It made no difference in the dark, and the memory of darkspawn was too fresh. But this was no hurlock; it had no stench of the Blight around it, no smell at all except perhaps that of earth, and she had learned too well the sound the darkspawn made when they rampaged.

This was too quiet and too loud all at the same time.

She shoved the creature off of her and pushed away from the table, dropping to a crouch as she opened her eyes to slits, looking for any shadows she could make out, any hint of form. There were shouts and screams and cries of pain, cries of mercy, the scrape of wood on wood. She had been wrong. It was not as dark as it had been beneath the earth, and she could see too much and too little.

Outside, the clouds must have shifted. A single flash of moonlight illuminated the room in a jagged streak, and in it she could see a creature, almost a man, moving towards her, cloak covering its head and distorting the shape of its body.

She nearly struck before she heard him. "Cauthrien," Nathaniel hissed as he dropped to a crouch beside her. He shoved something toward her, and when she curled her fingers around it, she felt the familiar weight of a sword. "We fight our way out."

"What-"

"_Follow me_," he growled, and she had no time to fight him, no time to argue. Another beast was upon them, and now she could make out details, stretched flesh and unnatural protrusions from the shoulders, like a blight wolf but worse. There was human light in the eyes, a grin on its face, and she shoved herself forward to meet its leap.

She caught its chest with her shoulder and slid her blade just below its ribs, stabbing up and through. Its weight sagged heavy and limp against her, and it twitched and clawed before finally falling back. Nathaniel had a hold of it and he pulled it free, casting it aside.

She met his eyes and nodded.

There were others in the tavern, and her guard's instinct, honed in the absence of an army to command, a man to protect, told her to stay and serve. But there were too many, and she was one woman, unarmored and blinded and exhausted from a day's work. She followed him as he ran for the door, followed him along the outer wall of the tavern until they could duck into one of Denerim's many narrow, winding alleys. She ran after him, feet beating a tattoo out of sync with his. Her only concession was to slow down and strike a rhythm on the side of a guard house.

They would go for her, and end whatever had begun in that room.

When he slowed to a halt, she was winded and aching, and she gratefully ducked through the door he opened for her. The room behind it was empty, bare floorboards and no light but the moon coming in through a thick-paned window. She gasped for breath, bracing a hand on the wall.

"Are you injured?" he asked, shutting the door behind him and running a hand over his mouth, wiping away the sweat and blood there.

"Not badly," she said, shaking her head and glancing down at herself. "Bruises. Small scratches." Blood on her face and hands, her head pounding._The usual_.

"Good." He scrubbed at a stubborn spot, then turned to her. "Now we can talk."

"Talk." She couldn't help her laugh, sharp and broken. "_Talk_. After what just happened, you want to talk? I told you, our conversation is over." She looked to the door. The nearest manned station was a five minute walk away, if she was right about where they were. She could go to them, make sure they knew what had happened instead of just that something _had_ happened.

And she could sleep, and forget all of this come morning.

But Nathaniel moved to stand between her and the exit, and she glared. He did not flinch, saying only, "It's what I came here for."

"I didn't know single-mindedness was a Howe family trait," she bit out, straightening. She ignored his snort, the creak of curling leather as he clenched his fists, and instead took a better look at herself. Her body ached, but she could push through him if she needed to, could throw him and put him in his place. She'd dropped her dagger in the tavern, though, and her clothing was spattered with blood. And her sword-

Her eyes narrowed. Her sword was just that; _her sword_.

"No, you're right." she said, slowly, looking back to him. "Let's talk, Howe." Lifting the blade up so that it caught the light, she asked, "Where in the_Void_ did you find this?"

He said nothing.

"I lost this sword two hundred feet beneath Denerim not four hours ago. _Where did you find this_?" Her pulse thudded in her ears, mind spinning, trying desperately to make sense of it all. Hand around her throat, arm around her waist, bruises from fighting and waking up on her back in the dark-

"I took it from you," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

_**And Rise: Chapter 4**_

"You were down there." She stared at him with brows furrowed and lips drawn tight, and he met her gaze. "You were down there when the stairs collapsed."

"Yes, and I saved your life. You should be grateful." He looked to her blade. "I don't take well to threats, ser knight."

The echo of her earlier words made her alternately want to laugh or strike at him. She did neither. Slowly, Cauthrien lowered her arm. "I want answers," she said.

"As do I. Perhaps trading them would be more amenable to you?" He advanced on her, small and slow steps at first until he was too close for her to easily get her sword between them again. He crossed the last remaining gap with a few quick strides, and she slid one foot back, her only concession. He didn't touch, didn't do anything more than look into her eyes, but he was close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips. He was trying to intimidate her. It didn't work to send fear into her stomach, but she did swallow as his lips parted and he asked, "If I answer a question, will you answer one of mine?"

She hesitated, then inclined her head a fraction of an inch. "Deal. Tell me what you were doing down there. Tell me why you were _following _me." If he had been the one to grab her, to pull her free of the collapse and then throw her into darkness, then he was the one who had dogged their steps.

"That's two questions," he said, voice deep and quiet, honeyed with a sharp edge. "Pick one."

They were of a height, and when she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, it brought them that much closer together. She refused to flinch of back away, though she shifted her grip on the hilt of her sword. "What was down there that you wanted?" she asked, her own words pitched low.

"Entrance into my father's estate," he said without hesitation. "Your men have it locked down from without even now. Now tell me, why is that?"

It was true enough; after Rendon Howe's murder and even after the Blight, she had kept men occupying it. The new Arl of Denerim had yet to be chosen, and nobody inhabited those walls. That was no secret, and she snorted. "To keep it from being looted while it is between owners."

He didn't respond at first, and then he shifted forward, as if to loom, as if to touch - before he rocked back half a step. He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head.

"No. My turn again. Wh-"

She was interrupted by a pattering, and then a pounding, on the ceiling above. She growled and stepped back, looking up to the rafters and then to the window. There was a flash of shadow, and she swore. Another shadow, and a hand slammed against the glass. It was attenuated, wasted but with too-tight skin, bone and claw and unnatural sinew.

There was a crash as something hit the door.

"What in _Andraste's name _are they!" she hissed, looking back to Nathaniel. He stood facing the door, no blade in hand, no weapon at all. He didn't look away from the wood that now rattled and banged in its frame. "Howe!"

The name spurred him into action, and he dropped to a crouch, moving to the exit. He motioned for her to follow, and she took up a position behind him. When the door opened they would have just a moment, just a split second to force their way out, but it was all they had. It would be enough.

"Beasts," he whispered, hand against the frame trembling. "Beasts you released."

"_I_ released-"

"When the stairs collapsed." He cast a glance over his shoulder, a hardened glare.

And then the door burst open, splintering and swinging wide on its hinges, and Nathaniel burst forward. In the dim light that was still far better than in the tavern, she could see him dodge under a swiping claw, moving so fast she could barely track his feet. She didn't have time to watch him more, and she ducked a strike and, gripping the blade and hilt hard, struck the side of the creature's head with her pommel. Her hand ached but she felt only the barest trickle of blood as she sidestepped the now-prone body.

"Come on!" she called, and Nathaniel was at her side, eyes bright and alert, hands still empty. They fell out onto the street and this time it was Cauthrien who led the way, weaving west and south through the alleys. _Rendon's estate_ was a glowing beacon in her mental map of the city, and she made for it without giving herself time to think. There was nowhere else to go, and if that was truly where these things were coming from, she would fix it.

There was scratching and howling behind her, claws on stone and wood and brick and thatch, too much noise and too much blood on the air for her to order her thoughts. They had to get out. They had to be safe-

Her forward hand slammed into the steel of a dropped and battered portcullis. "_Flames_!" she hissed and turned to lead them down another alley. It was too late. Four of the beasts advanced towards them, two at an inhuman lope, two in a more sedate stride. None looked human. They were twisted things, wrong things, not darkspawn and not men.

Nathaniel was again the first to move, blinding fast in the gloom, and she barely saw him as he came up behind one of them, caught its wrist and pulled back, halting it and snapping the bone as if it were nothing. She dropped to one knee, slashing up as the other loping beast tried to strike her. The blade caught its chest, cutting deep until she could feel the sickening thud of steel on bone. She pushed forward and ducked, hoping its momentum would carry it over her.

It didn't, and it pulled her blade free from her hand, falling upon her with a screech. Its teeth went for her throat and she shouted, driving a knee into its gut and then higher, catching the hilt of her sword and shoving it deeper. The creature faltered and she took the advantage, fist connecting with its face as she rolled them both. Three more strikes and a wrenching pull of her blade and its breathing shuddered and stopped. She staggered back to her feet, fresh blood on her face.

There was only one beast still on its feet, and as she rounded on it, she saw Nathaniel close with it. He had taken two down with his bare hands already, all speed and cleverness as far as she could tell, but she still sprinted to join him. He flashed her a feral grin before diving low, and she slashed high, over Nathaniel's head and down the other side. It would have worked. It would have taken its head from its body just as Nathaniel struck its kidney. But the moonlight flashed bright off her blade and she blinked.

It caught her blade in her momentary faltering and ripped it from her hands.

She staggered back and the night air was filled with an all-too-human scream. Nathaniel would have fallen to his knees, but the blade skewering him kept him upright. He reached for it, but his hands grew weak, his muscles faltered, and he fell forward.

Cauthrien snarled and lept, taking advantage of the moment when it threw back its head and howled in triumph to strike it in the jaw, then kick its knee. It thrashed and she barely dodged the blow, instead taking it down with an arm around its neck. A pull and the bone snapped.

Quiet fell once more. It was broken only by her ragged breathing - and Nathaniel's gasps behind her. She turned. He barely held himself from the ground, staring down at the blade run through his abdomen. He reached up a hand to touch the hilt.

"Don't-" she said, but it was too late; he pulled it clean out with trembling hands and tossed it aside, collapsing to the ground.

He laughed, a weak thing, and she muttered a curse and a prayer, staggering to his side. "Howe," she said, and he convulsed with another bark of laughter.

"_Nathaniel_," he rasped. "Call me Nathaniel."

"Don't talk," she said, staring at the wound uncertain of what to do. She was no field medic. A six-inch long slash on a man's arm she could tend to, a head injury, something simple. Not this. Not this gaping, bleeding hole in his stomach. It pulsed and shifted with every breath he took, and she could hear all too clearly the patter of blood on stone beneath him. "Maker's mercy-"

"Cut your hand," he whispered.

She froze, hands hovering over his stomach.

"What?"

"Cut your hand," he repeated. "And give it to me. I-" He groaned, hands twitching against the ground. "Trust me. _Damn you_, trust me-"

He shouldn't have been able to speak, let alone demand, and she hesitated as she reached for the bloodied blade beside them. He snarled, his hand curling to a fist and thumping the ground. "If you want answers," he hissed, "do as I say!"

"I don't respond well to threats," she whispered, fingers curling around the blade and lifting it, positioning the edge against her palm where it was already scratched.

"It's a bargain!" he gasped.

She watched him, watched him twitch and breathe with shuddering, aching slowness. There were ghouls dead all around them, unanswered questions, and Nathaniel Howe who should have been dead was dying before her very eyes.

She slid her hand along the edge, her cry a wordless whimper.

"Give it- give it to me-" His voice was fading, and she extended her trembling, twitching hand to him. He managed to lift a hand of his own, wrapping gloved fingers around her wrist and pulling it close. Her jaw clenched as she felt his tongue snake out and lick along the cut. The sliding heat was too much, foreign and _wrong,_ and she nearly pulled away.

And then a flash of pleasure spiraled up her arm as he sucked, drawing her blood into his mouth. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her lungs. She could feel the bruises all along her body, could still see the jagged slash of Dragon's Peak against the moon, but all her world condensed to where his lips and tongue touched her flesh. She moaned. Her other hand gripped tight to her thigh, and she looked around for anything, anything else at all to distract her and ground her.

What she saw was the wound in his stomach, no longer quivering as it knit back together before her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

_**And Rise: Chapter 5**_

She stared down at him as he lapped at the cut along her palm, her other hand sliding from her leg to the ground. She bent double to keep herself from falling, and she squeezed her eyes shut, senses and thoughts reeling wild. He should have been dying. He should have been _dead_. But his fingers trailed along her wrist, up beneath the cuff of her shirt, and he coaxed her closer. He hummed against her skin and she shuddered, biting at her lip.

How long had it been? How long had it been since _anybody_ had touched her beyond a pat on the back, a strike in the yard, a shove on the field of battle? Ten years? Fifteen? The heat coiling in her was unexpected, unwanted, and she fought to keep her wits. She had managed to ignore how close he had been in the abandoned house, but now, like this-

She had to focus.

_Blood mage_, she thought, because it was the only explanation that made sense. The Howes had no magic in their family line, but why else would he ask for her blood, why else would he _heal_ before her eyes with the touch of it to his lips? She let out a strangled cry, trying to pull away.

He didn't let her, holding fast with one hand while he braced the other against the ground and pushed himself up.

"Maker damn you!" she gasped, and she felt the sharp jolt of the cut being opened further, a catch of teeth rending it and making her bleed more freely. She fell back and he moved fluidly, hovering over her. Another languid lick across her palm, and he pinned that wrist to the ground by her head, shifting to nuzzle instead against her throat.

She kicked him in the stomach, uncaring of the wound there, uncaring of killing him. She panicked, head fogged and mind uncertain. Her boot connected and he grunted, lips brushing the column of her throat for just a moment before he pulled away from her and sat back on his heels, letting go. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips painted red and chin streaked, and his breathing was far too even, far too languid.

He chuckled, and she swore, grabbing up her blade and staggering to her feet.

"Blood mage-"

"No." He laughed again, grinning and licking clean his teeth. His eyes were darker than before, his cheeks flushed, and when he scrubbed a hand across his face, he lapped up what he could from the leather. "No, not that."

"Then what? Give me a single reason why I shouldn't properly run you through." Her swordarm trembled and she forced it to be still, tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white. She circled him, and he simply watched.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't?" he tried, then shrugged, rising to his feet. There was no wound to stop him, no painful limit on his motion to match the scrapes and bruises marring her body. "I'm not here to do harm? I'm grateful that you let me save my life?"

"What _are_ you?"

He hesitated, his expression darkening. "… Something that is better not explained, perhaps. Just know that I have saved your life twice. You _owe_me."

"Howe-"

The languid ease twisted into a snarl. "I have a name!" he snapped, and he advanced a step on her. "And until I know what happened to my father, and why, I will not be reduced to my family."

"Tell me what you are," she said, keeping the sword held in guard. Her distrust and unease grew at his shout, his approach, and she shook her head. "And do not take another _step._"

"You're out of questions," he hissed. "And I could tear your throat out in an _instant_."

She bristled at the threat, all traces of too-hot pleasure gone just as all the evidence of his drugged ease fell away. Her jaw tightened.

He was supposed to be _dead_.

"Tell me what happened eight years ago, Howe," Cauthrien said, low and hard and demanding, heart hammering in her ears. She tried not to think about how fast he could move, what he could do with those hands, how it had felt with his lips at her throat, teeth a breath away.

But it was impossible not to. His expression twisted from that snarl to something nearly inhuman. "Not until you tell me why I found my father's ring in a stain of blood in the _dungeons _of his estate!" he spat.

Her fear and anger spiked and she fell back a step with a shout of, "For the same reason his bedroom was next to the stairs to it!"

She expected a lunge, or a strike, or maybe even one of his bitter, dark laughs.

He didn't respond.

The momentary rage subsided into something more still, something she couldn't make out, and he looked away, then up to the moon. The fear in his expression was gone, the anger, the good humor of just a moment. His face was impassive. And then he frowned, teeth bared in the pale light, glinting unnatural sharp.

She didn't turn away.

"How much," she said, "do you know of what happened in the Blight?"

"Not enough," he said, quiet words that barely reached her. "Rumors. Heinous rumors. And that he is dead."

Maker only knew what rumors had made it across the Waking Sea, what rumors lingered in Denerim that a man could find in the span of a day. She watched him, words of Rendon's crimes on her lips.

She swallowed.

"I need you to tell me," Nathaniel said, though his eyes never left the sky.

"And I need to know what you are. What those things that attacked us are."

He hummed low in his throat. His eyes scanned the skyline and she followed his gaze, trying to find whatever it was he looked for. Her hand still throbbed, but the pain dimmed, and as she looked down to see the skin patched clean except for a faint darker line, he spoke.

"It's nearly dawn, and this must be done. Now. Come with me, and I'll answer every question you have."

She exhaled shakily. "Where?"

"The catacombs where we started this mess. Beneath the city. I'll explain there."


	6. Chapter 6

_**And Rise: Chapter 6**_

Cauthrien refused to go unarmored.

Five side-streets from where they had faced down the ghouls, Cauthrien stopped Nathaniel with a sharp _This way_, beating a path instead for the barracks. He followed behind her with a muttered curse, though he easily kept up with her long, fast strides, her weaving in and out of streets until they hit the major thoroughfare. The moon was sinking back towards the horizon in slow increments, and its light was dimmed by clouds rolling out to the Waking Sea, the same clouds that had made it so dark in the tavern.

As she nudged open the door to the barracks, shoulder braced against it and hands easing it so the hinges wouldn't squeak, he murmured low in her ear, close enough to make her tense and remember his tongue against her skin, "Why are we here?"

She looked back to him, too close and eyes shining in the faded light. "I will not face those things again without armor. And you need a weapon."

He considered for a moment, then stepped back and let her widen the gap enough that they both could slip into the shadowed hall. She led the way down to the far end, stopping in front of a narrow door and pulling a key from her belt. With a glance down the hall to see that nobody was watching - she needed no rumors of her bringing men back to her room, not even with her position, her status, her age - she eased the door open.

She no longer held a room in the palace of her own, but she had been given the privacy of single quarters here, a narrow bed, a window, and stands for her armor and weapons. She crossed the room and set her sword aside to begin the tricky work of sliding the mail and steel on.

Nathaniel followed and touched her hands to still them.

"Let me help," he said.

"Help," she snorted, even as her skin flared warm at his touch. She lifted her hands away and he worked the buckle of her breastplate closed. "Help, when I don't even know what you are?"

"It is complicated," he said, head bowed as he worked on another clasp.

"You died eight years ago," she said, and he shook his head.

"No," he said. "… Five."

She had reached for her mail shoulder guard, but she stopped short, fingers trailing over the links. He had gone down on one knee to fasten the last latch, and she looked to him with her brown drawn together.

"You're dead," Cauthrien said, half question and half unbelieving statement.

"In a way." He lifted his gaze to her, then carefully touched her waist and pressed lightly until she turned, giving him her other side to work on. An hour before and she would not have let him so close. Ten minutes before and she would not have let him so close. But now he knelt by her feet and worked quickly, efficiently, and she could think of no reason to ease him away. "A way," he continued as he pulled a buckle tight, "that leaves me in many ways quite alive."

She took a steadying breath. "A Grey Warden?" A Grey Warden who drank blood and moved too fast, who was so much a part of the shadows she could not find him even when he crept up a staircase just behind her - the thought brought her senses back and she frowned, pulling away and reaching to do the buckles herself.

He stayed unmoving for a moment, then rose to his feet, absently tugging at the torn fabric of his doublet. His skin, blood-streaked but pale, showed beneath the slash. "If I tell you," he said, "will you tell me about my father? Anything. Anything to disprove those rumors-"

"I can't disprove them." She tugged the last strap tight, then reached for her mail. "But I can tell you the truth. Start talking, H- Nathaniel."

Nathaniel didn't say anything, turning away and walking to the window with its thick glass and its view out onto nothing. He tapped his finger against it, then touched the latch. "Eight years ago, my father sent me away as part of a bargain," he murmured, barely loud enough to hear over the rustle of steel links. "It was an exchange. His son in turn for knowledge."

That sounded all too like the Rendon she knew, and she remained quiet as she slid her mail shoulder cap on.

"They said I would be squired. That I would come home a knight. That I…" His voice trailed off, and she could hear the faintest edge of bitterness, disappointment.

But he simply shrugged. "They were lies, at any rate. I was little more than a slave. I was sent to a keep far from any Marcher city, and I was kept there in near total isolation. As far as I know, my father never received more than a pittance, more than a whispering of the secrets my captors held. I spent three years there. Three years raging and wasting away, stalking the halls and finding no doors."

"No doors, Cauthrien. Consider that. No people that I could see. Food appearing from nowhere. Sounds I couldn't find the source of. I lived a nightmare."

She was frozen, standing with the straps of her pauldron held tight between her fingers, knuckles gone white with tension. "Demons?" she asked, but it was a hollow question. _Three years_. She had spent a month in Drakon after the Blight, until Anora had pardoned her. A month with only morning and evening meals her contact with others. But a month was not three years, and a glimpse of a man was still a glimpse.

"I thought so, at first," Nathaniel continued. "I thought that if I could find them - if I could break through the illusion, whatever spell was cast - that I could get home. I was young then. A man grown, but still young. I passed three name days in that place, grew into what I am now, but I was young and foolish and I fought against an enemy I couldn't see.

"And then it came to me."

She slid the strap home through the buckle and cinched it tight, but she didn't reach for her gauntlets. She could only watch.

"I still don't know why it waited for so long. I don't know what it gained except my maturity. Perhaps that was all. But it came to me - the form of a woman, but not quite a woman. I still thought her a demon. But I hadn't seen a woman in three years, and she appeared in barely anything at all, took me to bed.

"I had planned on killing her. I had thought that she was the key. But the things she did-"

He faltered, hand on the window turning to a fist. He swallowed. "She drank my blood until my heart stopped, and then she brought me back in her image. And then for four more years she used me, put my broken mind back together. I was her pet, her attack dog, dependent wholly on her until the day I ran a pike through her chest and left her pinned in the yard while the sun rose. It burned her to ash.

"And then I ran. I ran to Ostwick. I learned to live without her, and I learned to live through the throbbing ache of her loss. I was finally ready to return home, to take my place by my father in spirit if I couldn't truly in flesh, when word came of the Blight, of the darkspawn attacking Denerim. Of my father's death. Of the horrors of his life. I heard tales- tales of how he had bled the country dry as sure as my mistress had done to me. Tales of how he had tortured men and women. Even stories of how he had chained you down and set his mabari upon _you_, Loghain Mac Tir's Dragon, to put you in your place. And I knew that could not be my father."

He turned to her, leaning his hands against the sill and staring at her through the gloom. "So tell me, Ser Cauthrien. How much of that is true, and how much will you tell a monster who lives on the blood of the living?"

Cauthrien stared at him, then turned away, reaching for her gauntlets. "That last story is not true," she said, slowly, remembering the rumors all too well. "The others- are, in their way."

"You knew him."

"More than I wished to." Her voice wavered a moment before she could steady herself, staring at the stone wall. "I faced him in an attempt to keep him from twisting my lord Loghain's mind still further. I failed. Rendon Howe took over half the gold from the country's treasury, forced me to let his supporters into the guard where they caused more havoc than the bandits and apostates flooding the city from the countryside. He kidnapped a Bann's son for no reason that I know except to gain leverage, broke his legs in five places and kept them stretched so they could not heal. He moved his bedroom to the door of his dungeons, and I have never once regretted that I did not arrive in time to save him."

She had seen his body stretched out, cut to pieces, his precious rings and trinkets spilled into his own blood, and she had not been the one to order him moved.

"That man was _not_ my father," Nathaniel hissed, and before she could make out the soft slide of his footsteps, she felt his breath hot on her ear._Hot_, from a man who should have been cold as death, but instead felt as burning as the pyre. His fingers curled around the one wrist still bared, but he did nothing else.

His breathing was ragged, pained and uneven, and he licked his lips before continuing, "My father would not have done those things."

She turned to look at him, shaking her head slowly. "He had the Couslands murdered in their home under the guise of friendship and support, Nathaniel," Cauthrien murmured. "He would have destroyed this country if it meant he gained from it. I fought him every day for nearly a year."

Nathaniel's voice was strangled, hurt and angry. "The man I knew-"

"Died long before the Blight. He rose again a monster. You should understand that."

He flinched, hand gripping impossibly tight so that she gasped from the sudden pain. And then he let go, stepping back and turning from her.

"You'll excuse me if I refuse to believe that. If I refuse to believe those _rumors_ against a dead man-"

"I have told you the truth. That was all I promised you." She tugged her remaining gauntlet on, then took up her sword once more, grabbing a rag to wipe it down. "And should I believe your tale?"

"It's true! It's all-"

"True," she finished. "Whatever the truth, you said we needed to get to those catacombs."

He didn't respond at first, and she had to look to find him, over in the far corner, gloved fingers trailing over the polished hardwood of the bow she rarely used, the leather of her quiver. "Yes," he said, his voice flat and hollow in her ears. "There are things there to be taken care of."

"The beasts."

"The beasts," he agreed, and reached up to shed his cloak. He took the quiver from the wall, unbuckling the strap and slinging it over his shoulders. "We do all of this before the sun rises."

"Because you'll burn."

He took her bow, then turned to he with a nod.

"Yes. Because if we linger, I'll burn to so much ash. Not even a blood stain to leave for somebody to find."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Lore note! Realistically, in Thedas, vampires would more be specialized devouring corpses... but I assume none of you will mind too much that Nathaniel can be sentient and mostly the him we know._


	7. Chapter 7

_**And Rise: Chapter 7**_

By the time they arrived, the gaping entrance to the catacombs was filled and Cauthrien's men were long gone.

Cauthrien forced her heel against one of the larger stones, rubble no doubt left over from the darkspawn several months before. It did not so much as shift or groan, and she frowned.

"Job done, then?" she asked, glancing back to him.

"No." Nathaniel was staring towards his father's estate, as he had been ever since they had left the barracks, and she sighed, stepping away from the fill and moving to stand beside him. Whatever anger she had felt in that alley had faded with his story and with the necessity of _moving_, and she looked at him now with only a small amount of frustration and little desire to walk away.

"Well, we can't unearth that entrance," she said, and looked for his reaction.

"Then we go in through the other door." He jerked his chin towards the keep, then flowed into motion. "You can tell your guards to look aside for a moment, I take it? Getting out a window was easy enough, it's getting _in_ that is more of a problem. Hence the catacombs earlier this evening. If I hadn't managed that jump when everything began to collapse-"

"I will do what I can." She fell into a jog behind him, trying not to recreate the sudden roar and crash of below the earth, his hands on her, the overwhelming darkness. She wasn't so quiet as him with his soundless long strides, but they made good time through the thoroughfares and side streets, passing shuttered windows. The third bell rang from the chantry, distant across the city. "Three and a half hours," she murmured, and he held up a hand in acknowledgment.

_Three and a half hours_ until he had to be Maker knew where to avoid the sun. The catacombs, she supposed, but he could be blocked in there without a chance of escape. A root cellar, but none existed within the city walls. A storage closet, but the thought of sleeping in one-

"Hold," Nathaniel breathed, and she came to a stop at his side. The last several feet of the alley stretched before them, before it opened out onto the main road leading to the estate. The main road that _should_ have had at least five guardsmen patrolling it.

The main road that was empty.

"Shit," Cauthrien hissed, and crept forward, leaning around the corner to look to the gates. _Nothing_. The road was deserted. No guards patrolled the walls, and the gate was up.

Nathaniel joined her, close behind with his hands on his bow, an arrow nocked and ready. "Well," he said, "at least you won't need to pull rank?"

She snorted, hand at her sword. "Right. So, the other door?"

"The dungeons. How else do you think I stumbled over my father's ring?" His voice was tighter than before, and she glanced back to see his jaw tense, the muscles of his throat standing out. He stared straight ahead again. "Be ready. Without the catacombs exit, the beasts may be in the house itself."

She nodded, and murmured back only, "Follow me," then ducked out onto the street and advanced with quick, careful strides. There were gouges in the dirt, scuff-marks. And there were dark drips of blood, lines of it in the mortar of the walls. She bowed her head and pressed forward, until they were beyond the gate and in the surrounding yard.

The last time she had been there with a sword at the ready, prepared to kill if need be, the Warden had met her beyond the door. She had nearly lost her life in that battle. The thought steeled her shoulders and banished whatever tendrils of exhaustion were beginning to catch up to her after nearly a day on her feet. She crossed the yard with quick glances to either side, then tried the door.

The latch opened, and she pressed inside.

The first three ghouls fell upon them as they passed the chapel.

It was Nathaniel who saw them first, loosing an arrow with a shout that sent Cauthrien into a crouch. The first fell before it ever reached them, the arrow finding its mark in the center of its throat. The second dropped as she slashed its knees, then screeched as she drove the blade into its belly. The third forced her to the ground, but a kick sent it rolling off, and Nathaniel ended its unlife with an arrow between the eyes.

The rest were not so easily put down.

Two more lurked in the library, and just as the first wave fell, they charged screeching from the doorway. Cauthrien and Nathaniel fought them retreating, trying to make time down the hall to the far end. But the room at the end of the hall held still more enemies, lurking behind the doors. By the time they stumbled free, Cauthrien with blood in her hair and her eyes, Nathaniel nursing a fast-healing wound to his leg, she was gasping for breath and leaning hard against the wall.

"How much further?" Nathaniel growled as he looked for any sign of approaching ghoul, arrow trained for a moment on each of the closed doors. "I went out the first window I found. I can't get my bearings."

"Not far. End of this hall, left." She braced her hands on her knees a moment, then shoved herself upright. "Let's go. We can lock the door to his quarters behind us - there's a bar there. It will hold."

He nodded, expression turning shuttered and grim before he began to move again, padding fast down the hall. She followed, backing after him to keep her eye on the other entrance. The latch to Howe's quarters caught, but a kick just beside it from Nathaniel popped the wood open and they stumbled in.

Nathaniel quickly barred the door behind them, and made for the nearby table, finding flint and tinder to light one of the torches fallen from their holds dangling from the ceiling. She didn't know how he found his way in the dark, with the lack of windows, but soon light filled the room enough that she could see. Cauthrien trailed after him, checking her armor and trying to wipe the blood from her face. The rooms were in disarray, never cleaned after the Warden's rampage, wooden carvings fallen from the walls, chess set overturned. The old hearth was filled with nothing but cold, forgotten ash, and books lay scattered on the ground.

He bent to pick one up, dusting off the cover and setting it aside.

"And to think that I once believed I knew him," he murmured.

"Now is not the time." She brushed by him, catching his elbow in a brief touch to pull him along. The door down to the dungeons was just ahead, hanging open to the dark below. She glanced away for any other torch within reach, then hesitated.

Nathaniel Howe's portrait stared down from the wall near opposite the bed.

"Look," she murmured, and he did- then shook his head and strode past, taking the steps down to the dungeon two at the time.

"Another time, perhaps," he said, voice heavy with uncertainty and pain. She followed after, stepping quick to take her place at the lead.

They found six more of the ravenous beasts in the winding, twisting stone halls of the dungeons. The barred doors all hung open and the ghouls feasted on long-dry bones. They fought amidst the rattle of chains and the screech of bars against stone, forcing their way down and onward until Nathaniel whispered her name and led her into a side room. Her shoulders sagged with fatigue and she wiped again, futilely, at the blood once more streaking her lips. It was hopeless and only made the aches in her arms louder.

He closed the door tight behind them, leaving them in near dark; the torch had almost gone out twice in the chaos of the fighting, and she clutched it now, taking it to a sconce and setting it there.

"The passage opens here," he said, indicating a stone slab recently shifted. He moved to it and crouched to slide it into place, a respite for the moment. Their safe haven - down the hall from where his father died, from where he had tortured so many. It was a small room, barely anything, but the weight of the crimes and perversions enacted here made her anxious. She glanced to the door.

"It will hold," he assured her as he straightened again and took his bow in hand once more, loosing the string.

She nodded, trusting him because she had to and because she had no will left to be more nervous, more alert than she already was. For a long while she was silent, enjoying the break for what it was. She didn't speak again until her breathing had evened and her hands no longer trembled when she unclenched her fingers.

"Have you seen these things before?" she asked.

"I have," he said as he worked at retying the bowstring shorter. He glanced up to her, fingers pausing for just a moment. "They are walking corpses, animated by demons. Hunger demons, I believe." His gaze drifted back to the slab, to the catacombs, and she followed it.

"Are they really so fast?"

"Sometimes." He caught his bow against his foot and his opposite knee, bending it to string it anew. "If they have been possessed for many years. The body decays, and the demon inside rebuilds it, each time forgetting a little more what the original looked like. They become more Fade than human. As the limits of the body begin to break down and the demon strengthens in its time in this world, it can do more - be more. They are most dangerous when they have aged."

Slipping the top loop into its notch, he eased the pressure on the wood and then hefted it in his hands, testing the draw. "But they die," he murmured, "like any other walking corpse. Sometimes they take a little reminding of what its like, but pierce its heart or gut, take its head off, break its spine - it works. They will not rise again. Burning the bodies is even better."

"I'll have a team called in once we're done here," she assured, then rolled her right shoulder with a grimace, sagging against the wall behind her. Long hours awake and holding a blade had made the old injury flare up, the muscles tight and cramped and the joint aching. Just a little longer and she could rest, and-

Nathaniel set his bow down with a faint clatter, crossing the space between them. She looked up to him, quirking a brow in silent question.

"You must be tired," he said. His own expression spoke of echoing exhaustion, but he found the faintest of smiles for her, smoothing over the jagged edges she had seen in him ever since she had told him of his father. He moved closer still, too close, and she tensed. He shook his head and canted it in question. "How long have you been awake?"

"Since dawn," she said, exhaling shakily. She shrugged, shoulder twinging and tightening the lines of her mouth. "I will manage."

"Your shoulder pains you?" There was concern in his voice, patience and attention, and his hands flexed at his side as if he would touch her. She felt her cheeks bloom with heat. For all their verbal sparring, for all her distrust, she wanted that support. And the memory of his lips on her skin-

No.

"Howe-" He flinched, and she took a deep breath. No - she could not hurt him to push him away. "Nathaniel. Don't concern yourself. I can fight."

"I can fix those things for you, for a little while, if you'll let me." He met her gaze, and didn't look away as he reached up to rest a palm over her shoulder, against her pauldron.

"Does your monstrosity give you the power to heal, then?" she asked, the way he pressed against her making her words hitch. The small chamber felt too close and too warm suddenly, even though he moved no closer, and only shook his head.

"No. I'm afraid not. But…" He glanced away, down to his hand. Lifting it to his lips, he caught the fingertip of his glove in his teeth and tugged the leather free. Her breath caught and she leaned her head back against the stone behind her. Stone, she reminded herself, that had heard the screams of innocents. Stone no doubt that had been slicked with their blood as well. But that all faded as he tossed the leather aside.

"But," he repeated, "just as your blood kept me from dying, a drop of mine can ease your pains for a little while."

"Blood magic," she whispered, tensing not only from the idea of it but from how close he seemed, how lidded his eyes had become - how her breath quickened in turn while her stomach twisted. She remembered too clearly what it had felt like for him to drink from her, what besides panic the sensation of his breath on her throat had created in her.

She settled her hand against his chest, but did not push him away.

"Not blood magic," he said, voice low and thick, his eyes focused now on her mouth.

"Then what's the trick to it?"

"Too much and you will want more of it. But too much is a cup full, a night's drink full. A nicked finger," he said as he brought his hand to his mouth, "would not risk so much." He paused there, lips parted enough that she could see the sharp tip of one elongated canine, then let his hand drop. "I will give it only if you ask it of me."

_Only if_, she thought and couldn't stop the weak laugh from rising in her throat. _Only if_, as if his closeness was not making her head spin, her heart beat double-time, her fingers twitch and curl with the urge to take hold of him. She reached out, settling her other hand on his hip.

His lips quirked into a smile - easy, amused, surprised, not the least bit predatory - and he leaned in until they were nose to nose. "But ask it of me," he murmured, the sound rumbling through her chest and down her spine, "and I'll gladly give it."

Even if exhaustion hadn't weighed her down, even if her shoulder hadn't twinged and ached beneath his hand, she didn't think she would have turned away. _Blood_ was hardly in her thoughts. It was the temptation of tasting him, of feeling him even with a barrier of steel between. The threat of attack momentarily forgotten, she leaned forward and breathed against his lips,

"Please."


	8. Chapter 8

_**And Rise: Chapter 8**_

He hesitated for only the space of a single heartbeat before he caught her lips with his, bearing her back against the wall with a low, needy sigh. His hand on her pauldron curled, then pushed, and she gasped at the sound of metal scraping over stone. Her fingers skimmed over his chest and up the back of his neck, and he answered with another deep noise.

She clutched him close, shivering and parting her lips at his searching tongue. The hot copper-tang of blood filled her mouth, and for a moment she froze. Blood meant injury; blood meant faltering on the field of battle. But it also meant his tongue sweeping against hers, his hand not against her shoulder sliding over the steel plate covering her side and lower still, until he caught the edge of her mail tunic and slipped beneath it, palm over-hot even through her leather leggings. It meant the twisting want in her belly, groans in her throat and needy sighs in her lungs. And it meant a blossoming of desire, too, for the taste of it. It pricked at her and stirred her blood.

All traces of exhaustion vanished, and the ache of her shoulder became a distant memory.

What became all encompassing was the way his hand inched upward, the shifting slide of mail over his wrist, the need to cast her gauntlets aside so she could feel him skin to skin. She tugged her hands away to fumble with the buckles and tight leather gloves and he chuckled against her lips, arching away to give her space. The steel clattered to the stone and her hands found his jaw, cupping it as her fingertips slid back into his hairline.

Threads of thought tugged at her. _Rendon Howe's dungeons_. _Danger. The dawn_. But they were overwhelmed and worn thin by the taste of him, peeking through the slowing flow of blood. Nathaniel's hand, too, was clever and intoxicating, playing at the seam along her thigh, inching up by breaths. She whined against his mouth and he laughed, other hand sliding from her shoulder to the wall behind her, his thumb teasing at her pulse.

He drew away slowly, languidly, catching her lower lip between his and suckling a moment. Then the bright pain came, the tiny point where he broke the tender skin enough to draw blood, nibbling until it was swollen and throbbing. She gasped and tried to pull back, then to close the distance, aching for any form of resolution. She found it in how his fingers slid the last inch up her thigh, how his hand turned so he could cup his palm against her sex.

She was falling. She was falling, and all she could think of was how long it would take to shed her armor, how much it would take to get him underneath her, how her entire world had become the longing for his heartbeat against her, his pulse seated deep in her, the movement and slick heat of it all, his lips on hers and-

He broke the kiss, lips trailing down her throat alternating with light nips over bruises he had left just hours before, and this time she didn't pull away. She let her head fall back against the stone - _Rendon Howe's dungeon_ - and moaned as he found her pulse, as she felt his fangs drag against her skin. His hand between her legs coaxed them apart, his thumb rubbing through the leather until she squirmed and bucked in a loud clatter of steel.

The noise broke through her thoughts and stilled him, his teeth poised just over where her blood pounded hot and heavy. She struggled to draw breath, and he tensed against her- then shoved himself away from her, gasping and wide-eyed.

"Maker-" he whispered, and she sagged against the wall (_Rendon Howe's dungeon, dawn is coming, the walking dead_-), staring back at him. "Maker, I didn't mean-"

Cauthrien swallowed, the motion sluggish, her throat thick. She gripped fingers into the cracks in the mortar behind her, seeking purchase and anchor. Her head spun. It was as if her mind was clouded with spindleweed smoke, her every breath reduced to matching rhythm with her pulse as if it could find no rhythm of its own, the throb of her body longing for his.

"Cauthrien," he said, as she grimaced and stumbled forward. He retreated. "Cauthrien, it's- there's a demon."

"What?" she whispered, reaching out for him. He stepped back again.

"It's in my head. It's in _your_ head. Think!" The torch on the wall flickered, sputtered, and he swore as he ran to it, fumbling with the sconce. She watched, frowning and trying to do as he said. _Think_. But the heat was being replaced so quickly with curling fingers of cold- She crouched to grab her gauntlets, yanking them on and working her hands until they warmed again. The motion, the familiar grip of leather and metal, brought her back a little more and she looked to the slab of stone.

"Down?" she asked, voice still little more than a breath, and he was at her side, pressing the torch between her fingers.

"Yes." His gaze faltered, dropping from her eyes to her lips, to her throat, and she had to grit her teeth, bite down on her tongue to keep focused. It would have been so easy to reach for him again, to pull him back to her, to forget whose son he was and what monstrosity moved his limbs, to let him murmur low in her ear or feel his muscles flex against hers-

"Cauthrien," he murmured, and she closed her eyes with a soft whimper. There was the creak of leather, him leaning in, the passing heat of his lips near hers- and then he pulled away again.

"Get your bow," she said, straining against the need to follow him. She opened her eyes again and forced herself to fast strides, to where the stone slab covered the entrance to the catacombs. "Get your bow, we need to finish this-"

"Before it wins," he agreed, and when he came back to her, it was to crouch and help move the stone.

Upwards from the dark curled tendrils of frost, winding around her throat and beckoning her down with teasing breaths against her lips. She resisted, foot braced against the opening. She glanced up to Nathaniel. "What's down there?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "But I can tell you it dies like anything else."

"Does it?"

His smile was grim, twisting his reddened and blood-marked lips. "It will have to."


	9. Chapter 9

_**And Rise: Chapter 9**_

Each step made the cold worse. Frost edged at her armor and the tips of her ears, but Cauthrien pushed through it, sidling down the steep stairs.

"There's a small chamber before the door to the stairs you were on," Nathaniel murmured just behind her. "If we're lucky, whatever this demon is, it will be there."

"I'm not looking forward to the drop, otherwise." She didn't glance back, pushing ever onward. The dark before her and the cold around her made it easier to ignore the thought of him. Even with the spell broken, it was all too tempting to fall back to thoughts of him. His touch had felt good, and right, and in another place- another time-

She shook her head. _Howe_, she reminded herself. _Monster_.

Behind her Nathaniel hummed thoughtfully. "If it comes to that," he said, "I will get you down safely."

"A trick of the blood?"

"Yes." He chuckled as they came to the door at the end of the passage. "As far as I understand it, at least."

"How much of it do you understand?" She glanced back at him then, and he was watching her. He smiled faintly, then nodded to the door.

"Another time, perhaps. Another night. These conversations should not be rushed, and-"

"The sun rises," she said. He nodded without a word. _These conversations_, she thought as she turned to the door again and readied herself. _These conversations_ - of monstrosity, and of his father, no doubt. And perhaps of what had happened just those few minutes before-

She forced the door open.

Ice slicked the floor beneath her and she nearly fell with her first step, gritting her teeth and searching for her balance. An arrow sang past her ear and she looked to where he had fired, torch in her hand casting the barest light. It sputtered and wavered in the frigid wind circling her and drawing her forward, its light cast sharp and dancing over spikes of ice.

Howls came from the shadows, followed by a feminine laugh.

"Cauthrien!" Nathaniel shouted, and she jerked left, narrowly avoiding a ghoul as it howled passed, claws and teeth bared and seeking. She dropped to a crouch, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to focus. Three ghouls that she could hear, one more that she could see, and that _laugh_-

Cold slammed into her chest and sent her stumbling back, the torch going out as it fell from her hand. She felt her limbs freeze over, seize up and refuse to move for the power coursing through them and rooting her to the floor. She tried to thrash, tried to break its hold, tried anything. The ghoul had rounded; she could hear it skittering across the floor, coming closer and closer.

An arrow found home in bone with an unmistakable thunk, followed by a hoarse cry. Another arrow- another- and Nathaniel was at her side, hand on her shoulder for the briefest of moments.

"Conscious?" he whispered, fast and nervous, and his hand trembled.

"Caught- a spell-" she gritted out, and he cursed. She heard the draw of the bow, another arrow loosed. This time it was a woman's scream, and the spell shattered, leaving Cauthrien to cough and scramble to her feet. The ice beneath her, too, had begun to melt and fracture. She found purchase and launched herself forward into the dark.

She worked by sound and feel alone; she could only imagine that Nathaniel's blood-tainted eyes could see in the near absolute dark, the only light coming from the figure she closed with. Arrows flew, followed by howls, shrieks, the beasts faltering and falling in great roaring crashes. And in front of her, the figure of a woman, beautiful face contorted in rage coming out of the gloom in a flash of brilliant light. Another spell caught her shoulder and Cauthrien faltered, swinging to the left and cutting up as she closed.

The demon caught her blade with a single upraised hand, no blood dripping from its purple flesh, and suddenly the purple faded, the curves turned hard, and Loghain frowned at her from across the narrow space between them.

But Loghain was dead, head rolling across the Landsmeet floor, and she-

"Fight it!" Nathaniel shouted. "Whatever it shows you, fight it!" His voice was hoarse and was followed by a sickening thud, a crack, a cry of pain. Cauthrien turned to look, but then Loghain's hand - the demon's hand - was on her wrist.

"Stand down, soldier," Loghain said. "You will be rewarded for your service."

Her fingers around the hilt of her blade loosened, the sounds of battle behind her falling away. Loghain watched her, calm and patient except for the tell-tale twitch just above the right corner of his mouth. He was tense. He wanted this of her. He demanded this of her. And oh, to rest- to not have to chase redemption for another night, another day-

She was so tired-

Cauthrien leaned into her lord's touch, eyes sliding half-closed. She was so tired; she had served her city for a whole day and a whole night, and so many before that, and yet nobody would ever know of this, nobody would ever know what she had thought. She was so tired-

"Cauthrien!"

The sound of Nathaniel's voice, distant and raw, reminded her for just a moment of the taste of his blood in her mouth. _You must be tired_, he had said, and she had been, she had been so tired, and then he had touched her and taken her pains away-

Loghain's grip on her wrist turned painful, wrenching, and the cold twisted too deep into her bones to ignore. She started and cried out, surging forward and stabbing deep with her blade. The steel passed too easily into Loghain's stomach, no care for the chevalier plate that he wore, and he stared at her with wide, pained eyes.

"_You would betray me_," he whispered, and tears stung her eyes.

"I would save you," she returned, and wrenched the blade up. The illusion fell away as the edge reached the demon's throat, as it howled and fell apart in a blast of power that sent Cauthrien falling backwards. She landed hard, sword lost to the dark, heaving and retching and trying desperately to roll onto her side. _Loghain, _killed by her sword. _Loghain_, rejected. _Loghain_-

The demon staggered forward, raising its hands and building power between them, crackling and over-bright in the dark. Cauthrien stared up at it, unmoving and helpless.

Light spilled over her with a thousand burning needles piercing every inch of her flesh, just as a final arrow passed from the dark and into its throat. Cauthrien screamed, helpless against the onslaught even as the demon crumpled, covering her eyes against it all even as sight and consciousness slipped, finally, from her grasp.

* * *

><p>Cauthrien woke to sunlight, to her own narrow bed, and to a hundred aches and pains that sang to life as she turned her head.<p>

She was home, as home as the barracks ever were, and she was alone.

There was no sign of Nathaniel; her bow was back where it had been, her armor on its stand, her sword set aside. No frost edged the metal, no blood stained her lips. The sun was high over Denerim, and as she rose her body creaked and protested.

But her shoulder hurt no more than all the rest, and her lip throbbed in a single spot. Her head spun with flashes of the night - was it only a night? - before, collapsed stone and howling beasts, endless cold and Loghain impaled on her blade, accusing and dying before her eyes. She shuddered, catching her hand against the edge of her desk for just a moment. She stared at it - pale and calloused and covered in small scars. She had killed a demon wearing her lord's face with that hand.

And she had pulled Rendon Howe's son hard against her and mapped the feel of his body, too.

Cauthrien pushed herself away from the desk, then hesitated. There was a piece of parchment, folded and addressed to her in scratched, unfamiliar script. She eased it open.

.

_I'm sorry I couldn't be present when you woke. Simply writing this note brings me too close to the day. Know that we have both survived to fight again, and that the demons have been felled. I sealed the path down to the catacombs with more stone before I brought you out, and I hope that I was not too presumptuous in removing your armor._

_I will leave in a few nights' time for Amaranthine, but I would like to speak with you again before that. I owe you your explanation, after all. If you will have my company, and you have the time, please be in your room tonight an hour after the sun sets._

_If not, thank you for your assistance, and the knowledge you have given me. And may the Maker keep you safe._

_Nathaniel Howe_

_._

She stared at the letter, tracing the lines of his signature with a light touch long after she had finished reading. Proof, then, that it had not been all a fever-dream after falling in the catacombs. Proof that it had happened. Proof that he was not human.

But she would wait for him, all the same.


	10. Epilogue

_****A/N: And here's the epilogue, with a few questions answered and a bump in rating._

* * *

><p><em><strong>And Rise: Epilogue<strong>_

At eighth bell, one hour after the sun sank below the horizon, there was a tap at her window.

She looked up from her desk, for a moment startled and confused. She had spent the whole afternoon waiting, though, and with another breath she was only nervous.

When she had finally left her room, it had been third bell. Her shift had been taken over by one of her lieutenants. Instead of patrolling the streets, she had settled back behind her desk with a fresh stack of paperwork.

There had been six deaths in the night attributed to the ghouls; the templars and guard had destroyed all known walking dead. The Chantry said the ghouls were the work of hunger demons, and called for a thorough search of the city for maleficar. Cauthrien had penned a letter explaining that the source of the outbreak had already been taken care of by the guard, and had it sent with a runner just before dinner. And through it all, even sitting at a long table surrounded by Alan and Dairene and all the others who asked where she had been and only hesitantly accepted her avoidant answers, she thought of his request.

_Please be in your room tonight_. It wasn't an order, wasn't a demand, and that made all the difference.

But she had thought he would use the door, at least. Rising, she moved to the window, remembering how he had stood there a night earlier, how his fingers had danced on the glass and the latch. He had tested it then.

She reached the sill. She could see nothing outside, not with the glare from her lamp, and she was glad for that. A pale face just outside would have made her rethink the whole thing, would have made her hesitate even longer before she undid the latch and opened the window.

"Nathaniel?"

"Here." His voice was not too close, and she was able to look to where he was before he came out of the gloom. He lifted a hand in greeting. "Going through the front door- would have raised too many questions. May I?"

His pale hand - ungloved, she noted, clean and unscarred, with carefully trimmed nails, a noble's hand still - came to rest on the sill, and with a nod she stepped back, turning from him. There was the rustle of fabric and soft thud of him entering behind her, and the closing of the window. She didn't look back until she had reached her desk and settled against the corner of it.

He dusted his doublet off, then took up a spot against the wall by the window, shoulder propped against it.

"So," he said.

"So."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I- yes. What happened? I remember the demon- nothing else." She remembered waking up, sore and in her street clothes, armor and arming garb set aside neatly. "Nobody saw you bring me in."

"I was careful. Though it is hard to move an unconscious woman of your size through that window, I will say," he said with a small, awkward laugh, looking to it. "The spell it hit you with at the end was flashy, but I don't think it did any damage. How do you feel?"

"Aching. But not bad - considering."

"Hm. Just so." He drummed his fingers on the wall, then lifted his head to meet her gaze. He didn't speak at first, but she could see the tensing of his mouth, the way his tongue peeked out between his lips. She was staring, she knew, but she couldn't find it in herself to look away.

"Is there anything you would like to know?" he asked at last. "About my- condition? I did promise you answers."

She bit down a wry laugh. "I'm not sure where to even start." _Condition_. Monstrosity, she had called it the night before. And yet with the day's light between them, it didn't seem quite so monstrous. "Is it- reversible?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "No. Not that I know of."

Cauthrien nodded, thumb brushing her lip as she thought. The pinpoint ache of the cut there made her pause, and she remembered, too, his breath hot on her throat, his tongue and teeth at her pulse. _His teeth_, she whispered to herself. "You prey on - the rest of us?"

"… Yes, I suppose that's the best way to put it." His tone was mild but she didn't miss the momentary flinch, the way his eyes slid from hers, the resettling of his shoulders. He cleared his throat. "But we're all killers in some way or another these days, I find. I try not to end life if I can help it, but that's- rare."

"How many of there are you?" Predatory creatures were always a threat, but even as she asked him, she knew the answer. The Chant said nothing of them. She had heard nothing of them in all her life.

"I don't know," he said, and the shrug accompanying it was a loosing of tension. "Not many, though. It's- dangerous, changing a person. That much I made her tell me before she died. That I survived was chance. Maybe she thought the three years she kept me apart prepared me in some way. Perhaps it did. But… the blood she gave me, to make me this - it kills most men." He rubbed at his neck, then shrugged. "So no, there aren't many of us stalking the shadows. You may never see something like me again."

_Never see the like_. Just as she had thought - had hoped - and it tempered her unease, her wariness. He was no ravenous blight wolf, at least not until blood touched his tongue.

And even then- he had retreated when she pushed, had pulled away of his own volition in the dungeon. He called himself a monster. She pursed her lips."You're okay with being what you are?"

"It's better than the alternative." He let his hand drop from his shoulder, then inclined his head. "Have I earned answers in return, then?"

She slid down into her chair. "I don't see why not. They won't be pleasant, though."

"I know as much, now." He shook his head, looking beyond her, gaze growing distant. "Did my father ever- speak of me?"

Cauthrien shook her head. "No." No, he had spoken of Thomas and he had spoken of Delilah, but Nathaniel - Nathaniel, the lost son, the dead son - he had never been mentioned. It was as if Nathaniel had never existed at all.

But the man stood just a few feet away from her, looking now to the floor as his fingers flexed and clenched in rhythm. His voice was low but steady, controlled. "And did he truly have a hand in the worst of the Blight?"

"That and more."

"… Did he ever hurt you?" The question was quieter than the others, and the way his brow furrowed, his mouth tightened, was different. She felt her cheeks flush and she looked down as well, picking at a thread on the hem of her tunic.

"Only with words, but I grew very good at ignoring them," she said. "_A farmer's mongrel bitch girl_, I think was one of the nicer things he called me._Always comes to her master's heel_. He was likely the origin of some of the more- colorful stories about me. He could not attack me directly with Loghain-" her voice faltered.

_Loghain_.

The memory of killing his image just the night before was still strong, tugging at all the old guilt and hurt. She took a deep breath. "With Loghain there. So he sought to undermine my influence in other ways. But no, he never touched me. I only saw his dungeons three times - twice to see his 'work' on Ferelden's behalf, and once to see for myself that he was dead."

Nathaniel sighed, splaying his hand against the wall. "That's something, at least," he said, then pushed himself away from the wall. He took a step towards her, then paused, glancing to the door a moment. "I believe you - about him. It is hard to, and yet I do. He was not the man I knew. But neither am I."

"Everything changed," she agreed, leaning back. Nathaniel said nothing in response at first, and in the flickering lantern light, she watched a procession of tensions across his brow, different in minute ways. For all his cleverness and dexterity, his affection for shadows, he was not his father. The nose was the same, perhaps, as was something in the timber of his voice.

But he was different, markedly so.

He finally cleared his throat, focusing his gaze once more and meeting her gaze. "One last question, if you'll hear it."

"Speak."

He smiled and laughed, sounding almost surprised. "Such a soldier," he said, and she couldn't help her return smirk, her shrug. "I- well. Last night, the demon- and before, in the street- I wanted to apologize." He canted his head and quirked a brow.

"That's not a question," she said, slowly, even as the heat of her body stirred at the mention of how close they had been, of how his lips had felt on hers.

"No, it's not." Nathaniel swallowed, then ran a hand through his hair. She watched the small flash of his tongue as he licked his lips. "The question is, do you want that apology?"

_Want that apology_.

Cauthrien's eyes widened, watching as he shifted his weight back, as he couldn't quite find where to look. He met her gaze for only a moment, then looked down to her mouth, her neck, and further still until he stared at the floor beneath her feet. _Want that apology_. She turned the question over. Did she regret those moments? Did she hold them against him?

No.

Nathaniel coughed. "What I mean is-"

"No, I don't want your apology. It's not necessary." The words brought his gaze up again, and she felt giddy from it, stomach twisting and hands trembling slightly. She pushed herself out of her chair, hand touching the edge of her desk until she took too many steps towards him to reach it anymore. "That's what you're asking, isn't it? If I enjoyed it?"

His throat bobbed and he breathed, "Yes. Yes, that's what I'm asking."

"I did." Neither moved closer by step, but she leaned in a little, and one of his hands reached out between them, then stopped, hovering short of her shoulder.

"I didn't hurt you?" He licked his lips again and she saw again the peek of fang, the quiet threat. _Prey on the rest of us_, he had said. But he hadn't risked her, not at all. Even with a desire demon pushing them forward, he had hesitated, he had been careful.

She took the last step towards him. "No. No, you didn't."

His breath hissed from him, and he tensed but stopped short of moving. His hand still stayed half an inch from her, his gaze still fastened on hers. "And you don't care that my father-"

"You're out of questions," she said, taking hold of his hips and pulling him hard against her, fitting her lips against his, hungry and eager.

She thought she might falter, with no whispering demon to fill her head with want, but it was the easiest thing in the world to press into him, to slide her tongue against his lips until they parted with a groan. He wrapped her in his arms, tugging her back with him as he stumbled in the vague direction of her bed, all preternatural grace lost in the trembling of his hands, the need in his kisses. His fingers tugged at the waistband of her leggings, but she couldn't break away long enough to let him at the laces, not until they reached the mattress and fell back onto it, all tangled limbs and searching fingers and sliding lips.

It was infinitely better without steel between them, without him bleeding out on the stone, without the fear and unknowing and stone beneath her. His touches were skimming, testing, nervous and hasty and needy all at once. He was trembling as he pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside, fumbling then with the laces of her leggings while she kicked off her boots and worked at the fasteners of his doublet. She was inexperienced but had determination and curiosity on her side. It had been years since anybody had touched her, had plied her with kisses, and yet it was she who took the lead, who explored with her hands spread wide against his skin as she kissed along his jaw.

She drew a surprised gasp and a chuckle from him as she nipped at his pulse, his hands dipping inside her smalls as he worked the leather of her pants down her legs. His touch firmed as their clothing fell away, as he pulled her to him and rolled her onto her back. His lips were everywhere, teasing kisses as she reached for everything she could touch, as she watched him kick down his pants and slide from his smalls.

He kissed his way down her stomach, hands moving ahead of his lips to dip between her legs and press them apart. She struggled to push herself up onto her elbows, twitching as his breath ghosted over the skin of her inner thigh, then over her sex. "Nathaniel-"

He murmured something inaudible in response, nuzzling against her leg and looking up to her. He smirked. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to roll them over, reclaim her position atop him, take him into her. But when she tried to move, he stopped her, arms looping around her legs and holding her still.

His lips found her pulse in her thigh and he suckled, just a few inches from her center, and she twitched, head falling back.

"May I?" he breathed, and she felt the light graze of teeth against her skin. The teasing prick of a fang made her groan and sink back onto the mattress. The promise of the strange, sinking pleasure of him drinking from her made her nod, whine wordlessly her assent. She felt him grin, and then fit his mouth over her skin, nursing at the spot until she bucked, toes curling and heels digging into the mattress.

And then he bit.

It was a small thing, a moment's pain in two points, and then came the heady rush, the feel of him drawing on her. She cried out, back arching and legs spreading to give him more access. She barely noticed at first when he slipped his hand against her sex, dipping two fingers between her folds and stroking gently. It was all the heat of his mouth, the flood of her into him, the dissolution of where she ended and where he began. His tongue slid over the tiny cuts and he moaned against her skin.

She did notice when he slipped a finger into her, though, pressing into the tight, slick heat and working her open with a few testing crooks. Cauthrien turned her face to the mattress, trying to muffle the moan in her throat, the whimper as he pressed his thumb against her nub, massaging in small circles. Her hands clutched at the sheets, anchoring her as he pulled away from her thigh, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as he worked his way up.

He pressed his other hand over the punctures in her thigh and she felt her pulse heavy against him. But she lost the sensation as soon as his tongue joined the second finger probing at her entrance. She groaned his name and rolled her hips against him, and he answered her with a breathy laugh, his fingers sliding home and his tongue licking a path up to her nub. He suckled at it, tongue flicking over it until she had to close her eyes tight, whimpering at every flash of pleasure. A part of her waited for the nip of teeth, the momentary pain and all-consuming pleasure, but he didn't bite. He used his lips and tongue and hands without a thought to his teeth, bringing her spiralling up and shattering, crying out his name and jerking beneath and against him.

His movements slowed, turning languid instead of hard and frantic, and then he kissed a path back to where he had drawn blood. He lifted the hand that pressed there, licking his palm clean and then the cut beneath it. She whimpered at the spark of pleasure, but he lingered only a moment, pressing a kiss to her that stilled the faint ache of the wound before he moved up her body. He kissed at her stomach, her breasts, her throat, and then he kissed her cheek and lips.

"Cauthrien?" he murmured, hands skimming up her sides. He cupped one of her breasts, thumbing at her nipple idly as she found her breathing again and her pulse slowed. She opened her eyes, looking blearily to him, lips parted as she squirmed beneath him. "That was good?"

"Thought I said," she mumbled, "that you were out of questions."

He huffed a laugh. "It's your turn then, isn't it?" Nathaniel said, grinning and wrapping his arms around her, rolling onto his back and pulling her close. His erection bobbed against her hip and she hummed, covering his mouth with hers. She drank him in, nibbling at his lip that tasted of her and her blood. It would have been easy enough to slip off to sleep like that, curled against him in the aftershocks of pleasure, but his hand slid down to her hip again, cupping it and kneading the flesh there.

She pulled away and rose up, moving to straddle him. She quirked a lazy brow as she pressed her hands into his chest. "Had enough to eat, then?"

"I can be a bit of a glutton," he said, eyelids fluttering as she rocked down, his length trapped between their bodies. He swallowed, his hands on her tightening. "I'm not sure I can ever have enough."

If he looked at her with something too much like honesty, like intensity, it was because of her blood in his mouth.

It had to be.

She rolled her hips again and he groaned, head falling back against the mattress. "Maker, _please_," he said, mouth hanging open as he sucked in deep breaths.

"When did you start wanting this? Me?" she asked, leaning down to kiss his throat and slipping a hand between them to take hold of the base of his cock, positioning him. She couldn't keep from trembling, need surging back to an obliterating roar as she circled her body against the tip. Beneath her he hissed and gripped her tight enough to leave bruises.

"In the alley- when I saw you fight-" he breathed through gritted teeth. "Maybe earlier. Maybe when you watched for me when your men went on ahead. I don't know. I just know I want this." Nathaniel bucked his hips up and she bit down a sigh as he pressed just an inch into her. "You. I-"

"Quiet," she said, and sank the rest of the way onto him.

She didn't know when her fascination and curiosity (and frustration) had turned to this wanting - if it had been when he took her blood, or later, or earlier. But the feel of him burying deep into her, the sound he made, a broken sigh through his teeth, made her ache for more. She rose up and took him in again, faster this time, and again; she found a rhythm that made him cry out in shuddering sighs, guide her hips against his. She pinned him down, took his hands from her hips and caught her fingers around his wrists, leaning over him to keep him spread out beneath her.

He fought her, arms and belly and legs flexing beneath her, and she thought that he could overpower her, he could turn them over, he could take her as she was taking him. But she kissed him and he let her have him. He worked hard up against her but didn't wrestle her down. He met her thrust for thrust and kiss for kiss, and though old memories came back of a boy on a farm in southern Amaranthine, fumbling in the hay fields or in the barn, they were nothing of a match for this. It had been nothing of this kind. It hadn't been this give and take and balancing, this overpowering violent need, this matching of thundering pulses until, finally, Nathaniel gasped her name against her lips and broke her hold, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her hard against him while he jerked and spasmed and settled deep inside of her.

His lips found her pulse and he nuzzled against her throat, even as she worked her hips in little circles. He moved in careful, shuddering thrusts, the final inches she needed until she too came down, another over-hot and too-good moment where her world condensed to the feel of her pulse and the points where their bodies met. She sagged against him, nestling into his arms and gasping for her breath against the crown of his head.

She felt, distantly, his teeth prick her neck, felt the warm and heady flow of blood from her to him. She sighed and let him roll her over, felt him slip from her as he nursed at her throat. He drank slowly, lapping at each droplet and coaxing the one after it to the surface. He hummed, and she laughed, eyes sliding closed.

Her first lover in over a decade, and she was perfectly at ease as he took her life's blood.

He didn't drink for long, kissing the scratches closed and settling down beside her. His hands skimmed over her body, tracing patterns and learning curves. He pressed his cheek to her temple.

She reached out to stroke her fingers along his arm, his shoulder.

She could feel his chest rise and fall. He breathed, or chose to breathe, like any other man. He was warm, too, and she could feel his pulse - fainter, perhaps, and slower, but there. If he had died five years ago, it was hard to tell, and she nuzzled against his jaw, opening her eyes again.

"I have another question," he murmured, and she laughed, a distant and languid thing.

"Do you?"

"Mm." He settled his arm across her belly and pulled away enough to look at her, all mussed dark hair and pale eyes. She twined her legs with his and he smiled for a moment, then kissed her brow and murmured, "… What did the demon show you? Was it- this?"

The memory made her go still and stiffen for just a moment, breaking through her boneless ease for a breath, and then she shook her head. "No, not this," she said, fingers dancing down his hip. "It showed me the past, not- the future."

He chuckled, quiet and smiling against her skin. "A good way of putting it. Though-"

"Amaranthine?" she said, watching him lazily. She could see the hook of his nose even if she couldn't see his eyes. "You leave soon, don't you?"

"Tomorrow night, before midnight." He pulled away, this time with enough distance that she could feel the comparative chill of the room. He gazed down at her thoughtfully, brow creased with concern, or apology.

She thought of asking him to stay. To remain, to visit her again. _The future_. But _longing_ did not decide the truth; they both knew that too well. The man who had killed Rendon Howe lived in Amaranthine now, and though the Warden did not deserve to die for his actions, she could say nothing against it if he wished it, if he had learned it. So instead she only asked, "Why?"

"To find my sister. If I'm lucky, it will only take a month, or two." He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder.

"And then?"

"And then if I return to Denerim and find for a few nights a small room with heavy enough curtains to keep me from the sun, I shall be a happy man."

Cauthrien couldn't help her smile, relief settling into her limbs alongside pleased exhaustion. With a touch she drew him down beside her and he came gratefully to her arms, nuzzling against her cheek and twining his legs with hers. The aches and pains of the previous night's adventure were already beginning to fade; no scar lingered on her palm and no wound tore at Nathaniel's belly. The catacombs had been sealed and their questions answered.

She knew of a few places that fit that description that were within the pay of a guard captain.

Two months was not so long a time. It would pass easily enough, with the promise of what might come at the end of it all, and there was work to be done in the city. There were ever more papers to sign, men to arrest, and tavern seats to slide into and think of the time a dead man approached her with a question.

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><p><em>AN: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading, because this was an absolute blast to write. Please consider leaving a review!_


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